


I've never fallen from quite this high

by youreallsofuckingrude



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Past Abuse, Pining, References to Depression, Rimming, Season/Series 02, Touch-Starved, no betas we die like men, yes the title is from a Billie Eilish song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreallsofuckingrude/pseuds/youreallsofuckingrude
Summary: Isaac doesn’t look at men like Hector anymore.Pretty men. Men with kind eyes and edges.He’s disciplined his mind and body to only notice the things he can exploit about others. He doesn’t let himself focus on the graceful movement of limbs or the aesthetic pleasure of wide shoulders and battle-honed flesh. That part of him was bled out; hemorrhaged across stone and sand.
Relationships: Hector (Castlevania)/Isaac (Castlevania)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 124





	I've never fallen from quite this high

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I claim no knowledge of the actual recipe for the Elixir of Immortality. I realize that Livre des figures hiéroglyphiques wasn't published until 1612. I'm assuming that after Nicolas Flamel's death in 1418, Dracula came into possession of an early copy of the manuscript.

***Gorgeous art done by [@poidemnazad](https://poidemnazad.tumblr.com/)

~

“—Ha! NGGHH. UGHHH. Stand up like a man—” Godbrand is flailing about like an imbicile as Hector walks into the room, his hand coming to rest, firm, confident of it’s welcome, on Isaac’s shoulder. 

“You’re late,” Isaac snaps, loud enough for only Hector to hear. It’s not what he wants to say but it’s what he permits himself. What he wants to say is _You break me with your casualness_.

He swallows it.

“Hardly,” Hector scoffs. Their master’s arrival catches his attention then, and he coughs, amending, “Well not by much at least.”

Isaac fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Idiot.” He can smell the cinnamon on Hector’s clothing. He’s been down in the kitchens again, cajoling the vampire cook, Marthe, into supplying him with pastries. The old bat has been lonely since Dracula’s progeny took his leave. She'd been overjoyed when Hector started hovering at her elbow like an overeager puppy, begging for scraps.

Hector’s hand spasms on Isaac’s shoulder, his face contorting with mock pain. “You wound me, Isaac. I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.” He winks and his hand slides away.

Isaac keeps his breathing steady. He works very hard not to glance at Hector for the duration of the assembly. Or think about Hector. Or commit to memory the look of mischief in his eyes.

Godbrand’s ridiculous behaviour is a welcome distraction. Of course, the Viking would have the gall to question his king.

The meeting ends on a dramatic note, the flourish of Dracula's cape reverberating throughout the great hall, and everyone moves to take their leave. The vampire generals float about dejectedly, flashing their fangs at each other. 

Isaac leads the way to Lord Dracula’s study and Hector follows as he always does, unquestioning, trusting Isaac to lead them where they need to be.

They don’t pass unnoticed.

“Where are you two going?!” Godbrand spits.

Hector pounces first, reinforcing their place in the war council and beating Godbrand over the head with his prime directives.

"Godbrand, you've never met anything you didn't immediately kill, fuck, or make a boat out of."

He’s magnificent. Tongue sharp and intellect quick. The way his mouth shapes the word _Fuck_ —so uncouth, so deriding—has Isaac fighting a shiver. He barely manages his own jibe, too wrapped up imagining other uses for Hector's vocabulary.

_Enough._

Isaac speeds his ascent towards the upper levels of the castle, moving away from Hector’s nearness.

He’s certain Hector’s watching him, like always, eyes flickering from the pulse at the base of his neck to the protective clench of his fists.

Never before has Isaac wished for the blinding heat of the sun. What he wouldn’t give for a scarf to shield his skull. Something opaque to keep prying blue eyes from divining his very thoughts.

Isaac doesn’t look at men like Hector anymore.

 _Pretty men_. Men with kind eyes and edges.

He’s disciplined his mind and body to only notice the things he can exploit about others. He doesn’t let himself focus on the graceful movement of limbs or the aesthetic pleasure of wide shoulders and battle-honed flesh. That part of him was bled out; hemorrhaged across stone and sand. 

He wonders, for a moment, if Hector sees weakness when he looks at him.

It doesn’t matter.

The end looms near.

Their master’s weariness grows, and so too does Isaac’s.

~

Isaac sighs and waits for the guards to drag the body away.

It hadn’t been a long procedure—extracting information about the ambush near Gresit from the deceased night creature—but it’s taken it’s toll.

The screams echo in Isaac’s ears. They always do.

He slumps forward where he’s sitting outside of his forge, elbow on his knee and face in his hand.

And then.

“You work too hard,” Hector says quietly as he sits beside him. He pats Isaac’s thigh, palm lingering just a bit longer than necessary on his leather trousers before dragging off.

It’s a light touch but it's unexpected and Isaac’s ashamed to say that he startles. He flinches like Hector’s stabbed him with his own knife instead of offering a commiserating nudge.

Isaac feels his face go hot, mouth suddenly _dry_ —and he’s lucky, he thinks, that his complexion is too dark for his embarrassment to be easily visible.

“If you could stomach the unkind jobs, I would not have to,” he bites, defensive.

Hector stares at him for a while, features tightening with something like affectionate rebuke. “I’m sorry to have startled you,” he says gently, incredibly patient.

Isaac’s iron restraint keeps him from threading their fingers together. He knots his hands where they hang between his knees, agitated posture softening microscopically. “Marthe insisted I try her herbal tea. I suspect it contained a stimulant.” His tone of voice is curt, communicating that the subject is closed.

“Or maybe you’re just unused to affection,” Hector murmurs to himself, ignoring Isaac’s cues to _drop it_.

Isaac cuts his eyes to meet Hector’s steady gaze and sees him have some sort of epiphany. His brow wrinkles with steadfast determination and Isaac knows, whatever plans are cementing for him, Hector won’t give up easily.

He doesn’t know if that excites him or fills him with terror.

~

Isaac knows he had a mother. Human biology, as Dracula would say, demands it.

But knowing and believing are two different things.

Isaac's mother exists as a nebulous entity within the depths of his psyche. Someone he hopes, in his lowest moments, cried when he was taken from her.

Young and battered by trauma, his memory lacked the elasticity to keep the shape of her face, the sound of her voice, and whether she was prone to simple, loving touch.

His former master wasn’t overly tactile. He’d preferred back pats, hearty and fleeting, and, devastatingly, the lash of a whip when Isaac proved too expecting.

The magicians who sought to use him for parts came next.

~

Isaac knew that Hector was plotting, but it still comes as a bit of a shock when his plan is revealed.

Hector doesn’t let him anticipate his attacks. Like a shade from Isaac’s personal Hell, he appears wherever Isaac happens to be in the castle, bay-laurel scented hands always hovering, then reaching out and _touching_.

Fingers closing around his wrist and tugging when he reaches for a book in the library— _“Have you read this volume? I’ve always found it to be more helpful.”_

Curling a jar of slave into his palm after a round of self-flagellation— _“Marthe helped me collect the herbs.”_

Pressing low and insistent against his back after he returns from discussions with Dracula _—“Come with me to the armoury? I want to work on my forms.”_

Hector’s relentless.

His siege on Isaac’s body means that he can never quite anticipate what’s coming his way, never quite erect a mental barrier to keep from _feeling_.

Isaac would admire his resolve, but mostly he’s just tired. He feels consumed by stress, itchy like his skin is suddenly too small for his bones. He doesn’t understand it and he doesn’t want to ask because then Hector might stop.

And that—

Isaac's lost enough in this world to know when to keep quiet.

~

They’re outside, ostensibly for Hector to tell him why he should side with Carmilla and turn the night hordes on Brăila, when Isaac snaps.

He’s perspiring from their hike, beads of sweat dripping down his temples and the bridge of his nose. Hector laughs lightly at his condition when they come to a stop in the shelter of the trees. His own face is dry and not at all ruddy from exertion. “You don’t get out much, do you?” he asks. Impulsively, he swipes at a droplet on Isaac’s cheekbone with his thumb.

Isaac swears it burns him.

He forces Hector up against a tree before he can blink, hands fisting in the front of his blue and black livery.

“What do you think you are doing?” Isaac barks, crowding close enough that Hector’s breastplate is digging into his own. “Do you hope to accomplish something?” He sneers cruelly. “Am I a project? A wretched creature in need of fixing?”

Hector doesn’t respond. “I’m going to try something,” he says instead, his voice damnably small again like Isaac’s going to bolt at anything more than a whisper. “Okay? Don’t freak out.”

Isaac would like to know what qualifies as _a freak out_ to Hector, considering that he’s currently got him pinned to a sapling.

Hector blinks. His eyes are impossibly luminous, nose pink and mouth open. His resemblance to the angel depicted on the ceiling of the South wing observatory is uncanny.

“What—”

Hector cuts Isaac off with a kiss.

It’s not a good one.

Isaac wasn’t ready for the intrusion. His lips are still closed tightly, frozen and unresponsive when Hector tries to tease and suck. Hector tastes like venison and the sweet buns he had for lunch. His lips are chapped; timid. Like he’s expecting a right hook.

He makes to pull away—

But then Isaac swipes his tongue over the curve of his bottom lip, testing, tasting, and Hector makes this _sound_ , an over-exaggerated exhale with a hint of a moan, that has Isaac’s hips rolling of their own accord. 

It’s the most intimate five minutes Isaac’s ever shared with another person.

~

Hector doesn’t behave any _stranger_ , not around Isaac, at least, but Godbrand stays as far away from him as he possibly can.

The redheaded oaf looks more battered than usual. He spends his time in the dining hall, deep in his cups, waxing angrily about “Carmilla having a bug up her snatch” and “preferring the smell of pig shit to hormones.”

Isaac _has_ wondered if Carmilla had a hand in Hector’s sudden focus on him.

Hector may look like a prey animal, wide eyed and too trusting, but prey he is not. Isaac is not fool enough to think him incapable of having an ulterior motive. Humans, as a general rule, serve themselves above all others.

Carmilla’s displeasure could mean one of two things. Either Hector isn’t progressing his seduction fast enough for her liking, or he’d taken up this little project _without_ her expressed permission.

Isaac tries not to let himself hope for the latter.

Apathy, however, has forsaken him along with dreams free from the memory of their kiss—that punched-out _hitch_ in Hector’s breath, the hesitant glide of Hector’s tongue against his, the imperfect grind of their hips.

~

Some days Isaac prefers to stay abed.

The sun is sometimes too bright and too hot to mount the effort, and the sight of his body, scarred and lean with survival, makes him so numb that he can’t always stomach it.

Today is one of those days.

He stays curled in his blankets, chilled by the stone walls of the castle and lulled into a state of semi-awareness by the dry explanations in his chosen manuscript, _Livre des figures hiéroglyphiques_.

Halfway through the second chapter, Isaac smells bay laurel soap—now inextricably linked in his mind with tawny skin and silver-grey hair—and knows that Hector’s found him. He hears then, the careful tread of steps outside of his door, each one tentative, wondering if he’s going to be turned away.

Hector finds his confidence after a bit more pacing and Isaac hastily buries his smile in inked parchment.

The door creaks open.

“Have you taken ill?” Hector loiters in the doorway, still uncertain, which is amusing because he didn’t knock.

There’s a shift of cloth as he folds his arms over his chest.

Isaac can feel Hector's eyes roving over his bedclothes, his pillow creased face. He imagines Hector chewing on the slightly fuller bow of his lower lip. “The guards said you haven’t been to your forge.”

“Your concern is appreciated but misplaced.”

“I don’t agree.” Hector moves closer, galvanized by Isaac's dismissive attitude and perches boldly on the edge of his bed.

A steady inhale through his teeth, and an exhale that doesn’t shake.

_Commendable._

Isaac feels a hand cup his ankle. Warmth spreads up his leg when Hector starts to _move_ , brushing his palm back and forth like it’s completely normal.

An expected touch.

A ritual.

Isaac’s mouth floods with saliva, his grasp on the manuscript spasming until the spine creaks. 

It’s obscene.

He wants to throw himself into Hector’s lap and push his face into the stretch of his belly, shirt pushed out of the way in his quest to just—breathe without yearning. To feel flesh, embodied and blood ripened, his to hold, possessed not coveted, rise and fall with the unending tide of oxygen exchange.

“Alright,” Hector says, unnerved by the strain of his silence. “Scooch over. I’m climbing in.”

On a good day, Isaac doesn’t _scooch_ for anybody.

But it’s not a good day. And it’s Hector who's asking.

The other Forgemaster crawls into the space Isaac makes for him and settles close enough that they’re pressed together from hip to knee.

“What’s that?” Hector asks. He inclines his head to indicate the book in Isaac’s hands, his nose wrinkling adorably.

Isaac raises a withering brow. “So kind of you to ask. Would you like to make space for yourself between the pages too?”

Hector scoffs. “No need to be a churlish lout.” He wriggles his backside more firmly into place next to Isaac and reaches out to tap tap his fingers against Isaac’s wrist until he lowers the book enough for his gaze.

Isaac gives a put-upon sigh.

They read, Isaac holding the book and Hector nudging him with his elbow when he’s ready to turn the page.

After the third page turn in as many minutes, Isaac suspects that Hector can’t actually read French and begins translating for him aloud. Hector says nothing, his wavy hair hiding his expression, but the rub of his cheek against Isaac’s shoulder is decidedly sweet.

Sometime later, their quiet reading and listening devolves into a debate over the fifth chapter.

“It’s lunacy!” Hector barks, punctuating his exclamation with the jab of a finger into Isaac’s ribs. “Elixir of immortality my ass _._ It’s vampire blood, most likely diluted with some alcoholic swill made in a chamber pot. This Flamel fellow—”

“Hector—”

“—was a raving idiot if he thinks—”

“It’s possible. The recipe is soun—"

“No, _it’s not_ and you’re having far too much fun winding me up about it.” Hector’s voice is getting louder, more annoyed, and Isaac wonders how much more it would take to push him over the edge to outright screaming.

Hector’s cheeks are bright with colour, eyes flashing, and he’s beautiful. So, so beautiful.

Isaac cups Hector’s jaw before he can think about it, watching the way his pupils dilate, listening to the click of his throat as he swallows. Hector’s mouth is slightly open, ready to launch another scathing comment, and Isaac wants to fill it, so he shifts his hand and presses his thumb against the corner of his lips, pushes inside where Hector’s soft and wet. Hector closes his mouth around it and _sucks_.

Isaac gasps. “Fun is not something I’ve had in a very long time.” His voice is wrecked. He isn’t sure if he wants Hector to hear it, but he deserves to know. “Life has not been kind to me, and I fear what it will take next. Thank you—for giving this back to me.”

Hector lets go of Isaac’s thumb, lets go of the whine building in his chest, too, as his hands come up to frame Isaac’s face and pull him in for a kiss. It’s a biting, needy thing. Less awkward than their first, but just as heady. The kiss says you’re welcome, and I adore you, but most importantly, I feel it too.

When Hector pulls back, Isaac’s teeth rake across his bottom lip. Hector runs his tongue along the indentations and asks, with something terrible and precious in his voice, “Is that what I am? Something to lose?”

It should sound too presumptuous, arrogant maybe, but the way Hector says it is like he’s claiming Isaac in reverse. Like he wants nothing more than for Isaac to be happy, safe, _loved_.

Isaac doesn’t answer. It’s impossible. He falls forward without any grace, hiding his face in Hector’s throat. He keeps himself there, nose pressed to Hector's pulse, eyelashes fluttering kisses against his skin, and just weeps.

~

“Easy,” Hector murmurs. He manages to keep his arm around Isaac’s waist as he thrashes, alarmed by the feel of another body bracketing him in the dark. All but four of the candles they lit earlier in the evening have burnt themselves out.

Isaac calms and Hector yawns into the curve of his neck, lips grazing his shoulder, breath puffing melodiously against his ear. “You were dreaming.”

“You stayed.” Isaac’s deep voice has gone gravelly and he winces at the audible reminder of his crying.

Hector rubs small circles above his navel, and hums, content. “There are few places I’d rather be.”

And that does it.

The shock of it brings Isaac fully awake like he’s been splashed with cool water. His charade, his careful detachment, has been thoroughly destroyed by this siren in the skin of a lamb.

He needs to leave, needs to separate himself from Hector before he takes any more of his soul with him when he eventually goes to Brăila. He squirms, fingers reaching for leverage to inch himself away.

 _“Isaac,”_ Hector hisses. He wraps a leg around Isaac’s hips to keep him still and realization sweeps over Isaac, hot and shudder inducing.

He goes rigid.

Hector’s very aroused cock is pressed to his backside through several layers of cloth.

Allah preserve him, Isaac can’t _breathe._ He shifts minutely and there’s another hiss. Hector’s hips buck without his consent, grinding his cock further into the swell of Isaac’s ass. 

Isaac feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.

“Sorry,” Hector mumbles. “Just uh—just give me a minute.”

“It’s fine,” Isaac grunts.

It’s not fine. He wants to be naked, wants to push back into Hector’s hardness, maybe roll over and rut against his wonderful stomach.

“My intention wasn’t to make you uncomfortable,” Hector says, soldiering on through the awkwardness. His face is twisted with contrition when Isaac chances a glance out of the corner of his eye.

“You—you’ve been getting better at it.”

“At what?” Isaac asks, because he’s a masochist.

With aching slowness, Hector slides his nose back and forth in a nuzzle against the skin behind Isaac’s ear, giving heaviness to the taffy feel of arousal already gathered between Isaac’s legs.

“At not flinching when I touch you,” Hector says eventually, soft and quiet, like he always is when it’s just the two of them. “At letting me in.”

Isaac can’t hold back his groan at the picture the words conjure: Hector opening him with the utmost tenderness, stretching him wide with his graceful fingers, impaling him on his cock. Isaac tips his head back, exposing more of his neck to the feel of Hector’s warm breath. He’s delirious with want, skin tingling, every point of contact with Hector’s body pleasantly hot and alive.

“Isaac,” Hector warns. He dips his pinky finger down to where Isaac’s cockhead has breached the waistband of his pants, crown a lighter colour than his shaft, leaking, _straining_.

Short, quick gasps spill out of Isaac’s mouth and then he’s rolling his hips against Hector, giving in to the need to _move_.

Isaac whines at the friction and Hector cries out, “Isaac! Isaac, you’re— _shit!_ —you’re going to need to stop that if you **don’t** want me to fuck you.”

“Do it,” Isaac breathes. “Please.” His voice sounds funny. Stretched high and thin.

Hector rolls him onto his back and kneels between his legs. His eyes are huge in the darkened room. “Okay,” he nods. “I can do that.”

~

Hector takes his time undressing Isaac. He mouths over every inch of skin as he unveils it, edging Isaac’s shirt up the plane of his body, tracing his fingers along his tattoos, hooking into the top of his pants and smallclothes, licking his belly button teasingly as he pulls.

Isaac’s delirious from the torture.

His frustrated sounds morph into moans as Hector tosses his clothing from the bed and wriggles out of his own.

They’re both naked now and Isaac isn’t confident that he won’t pass out.

The sturdy, perfect lines of Hector’s shoulders, his well-muscled abdomen, are all on display. His nipples, dusky like overripe berries, contrast indecently with his olive skin and the whisper of silver winding down from his navel.

Isaac stares at his cock for a while, at the defiantly rigid line of it, and Hector lets him. Devours him silently in turn.

The arousal that felt so urgent between them settles down into something like a roiling simmer.

Hector kisses the arch of Isaac’s foot and works his way upward, positively glacial, licking over Isaac's trembling thighs to the join of his hip.

“Hmm,” Hector hums against the delicate flesh in Isaac’s groin, inhaling his spice and musk. He turns his head to nudge his nose against the base of Isaac’s cock and starts to suck and stroke, teasing his slit with his tongue, scraping gently with his teeth over his frenulum, until Isaac’s hips are lifting from the bed and he’s whimpering for something more, pleading for Hector to take him over the edge. Hector just wraps his hands around his thighs and holds him down, smiling against his slick skin, whispering words of encouragement.

When Hector’s jaw starts to ache, he pulls off with a wet pop, and Isaac pants for air, a small, sticky spot of pre-ejaculate pooling on his stomach.

Hector fumbles around next to the bed for a moment and comes back with a vial of straw-coloured oil, a sheepish grin playing about his lips.

“I didn’t want to presume,” he says, glancing furtively around the room, avoiding Isaac’s face. “I really did think you were ill. I thought that maybe I’d offer to give you a massage.”

By now, Isaac’s regained enough intelligence to catch on to the fact that Hector’s genuinely worried about his actions being misconstrued. He sniffs, raising a judgemental eyebrow at his idiot. “Just tell me that Marthe didn’t help you make that.”

 _“No,”_ Hector bleats, shivering with revulsion at the thought. “I slipped out to a nearby village before the castle was last moved.”

“Thank the gods for that,” Isaac grunts.

Hector pinches him in retaliation as he situates himself between Isaac’s thighs again, long fingers glistening with the sweet-smelling oil. Isaac holds his legs out of the way as Hector circles his entrance, scarcely making contact with that needy part of him. Each pass of his finger, he adds a bit more pressure.

Isaac’s breath snags in his chest. He’s hungry for it. For the burn. The stretch.

“Have you done this before?” Hector asks, smiling up at him slightly. He’s gone heavy lidded.

“Yes,” Isaac admits. “But not for a long time.”

And never with someone who cared if he enjoyed it.

Hector must read the unspoken thought in his face, because he lays himself down and licks right over Isaac’s opening, working at his rim from the outside as he slips one finger in.

“Ah!” Isaac yells mindlessly, moaning at the sensation. He feels Hector pressing gently against his walls, wedging inside, stretching, and Isaac's breathing hard again, his body moving involuntarily.

Then Hector adds another finger and spreads them, crooking upwards, feeling for something on every dive in. He chuckles when he finds it, blue eyes twinkling at the way Isaac’s shaft jumps like he’s been electrified, his cries ringing louder.

For what feels like agonizing hours, Hector keeps Isaac on the brink, reaching deep and then pumping shallowly.

“Please,” Isaac begs, uncaring of his dignity. “No more. I’m ready.”

“You’re perfect,” Hector answers, brows drawn, expression overfull from emotion. He wipes his hand on the sheet and raises up to grip Isaac’s face reverently, leaning in take his lips again, feeding Isaac’s taste to him. Isaac sighs his approval and twists eagerly beneath Hector’s body.

Eventually, Isaac pulls his head away and rolls onto his belly.

They share a look over his shoulder.

_I want you._

_Let me give you what you need._

Hector drags his nose over Isaac’s trapezius, mouthing the knobs of his spine, gentling him. His body is a heavy weight pushing Isaac down into the bed, grounding him in the moment when his senses start to swim.

Isaac is more than ready when Hector grips himself and lines the head of his cock up with his entrance.

“Okay?” Hector asks, still so terribly considerate.

Isaac squeezes his eyes shut and nods, desperately trying to banish the prick of tears.

Hector inches inside, bit by bit, until he’s fully seated, balls nestled up against the curve of Isaac’s oiled cheeks. Isaac swears he can feel the beat of Hector’s heart inside of himself, his body so full, so effervescent.

“Isaac,” Hector breathes, his voice broken.

“I know.” Isaac’s lashes flutter, a dreadful tear finally escaping. “I know.”

Hector keeps the pace just above outright torment. He savours Isaac’s reactions, the low rumbly sounds he makes on the outstrokes, the high-pitched cries when he stimulates his prostate.

Hector clenches his hands over Isaac’s on the sheets, and Isaac writhes under the pinning pressure, insensible, shamelessly rolling his hips and rutting against the bed. _“More, pleasepleaseplease.”_

“Always.” Hector angles his hips for deeper penetration, thrusting harder. _“I'll always take care of you.”_

Overcome, Isaac turns his head and outright sobs. Pressure builds at the base of his spine, pleasure sparking deep and strong.

The squeeze of his body has Hector biting his lip so hard that blood runs down his chin to mix with their sweat on Isaac’s skin.

“That’s it,” Hector slurs past his split lip. “Come for me, Isaac. Let me feel you spend.” He sneaks a hand between Isaac and the mattress, wrapping around his neglected cock and stroking once.

It’s all he needs.

 _“Hector!”_ Isaac arches beneath him, his pained expression transforming into one of ecstasy. He goes off like an unstoppered cask of wine, cock jerking, spurting a jet of seed into the bed.

The contraction of his ass wrenches a gasp from Hector’s lungs, wringing his orgasm from him in short order. The feel of Hector spilling deep inside his body pulls a pitiful whimper from Isaac's throat.

“Jesus,” Hector wheezes, collapsing against him. Their arms and legs intertwine. Hector kisses his favourite spot in the hollow behind Isaac's ear, smearing more of his blood there—claiming him.

Isaac hasn't stopped crying.

"Say something," Hector urges, wiping away the salty tracks. 

Isaac shakes his head. If he opens his mouth he's going to say something he can never take back.

Hector lets him hide his face under his arm, curls around him and offers as much comfort as he can.

For the first time in his life, Isaac feels sheltered.

~

Much later, when it’s quiet between them, Isaac brushes Hector’s silken hair from his face and speaks up.

“I want you to stay,” he tells Hector. He keeps his eyes unshielded, face open and vulnerable. “Stay faithful to Dracula. Pick Argeș. Choose me.”

Hector swallows. His voice is rough.

“I wish it were that simple.”

~

They go to Brăila.

Isaac doesn’t look at Hector as he stands next to Carmilla, ready to lead the procession out of the castle.

He’d gotten his dearest wish. And now, if he looks, his worst fears will come true.

Could anxiety manifest itself as a phantom knife in his sternum? Only years of discipline keep Isaac from buckling under the intense pain in his chest.

The castle doors grate open.

Carmilla steps forward, proud and swaggering, self-assured in her manipulation. “Come along then, Forgemaster.”

She’s simpering, head tipped back to the sky, when Hector strikes his blow.

Her throat opens, skin parting to paint the cobblestones crimson, and Hector drives Isaac’s borrowed knife deeper, severing her spinal column with a sick crunch.

Her body disintegrates in a blaze of indigo fire.

Once again, Isaac's reminded of an angel.

He inhales and Hector’s gaze snaps toward him across the atrium. A sea of words and expectation wells between them.

Neither of them moves an inch.

Slowly, Hector raises Isaac’s blade to hold it flat against his heart. Carmilla’s blood anoints his breastplate.

It’s a solemn promise. A silent pledge between lovers.

_Always._

Isaac's teeth show when he smiles.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me about forge husbands on [Tumblr](https://youreallsofuckingrude.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
